Robledo looked at him fixedly, but he kept silence while Torre Bianca went on with his news.
“Last night Moreno told me that Pirovani and Canterac are not getting on together.... Each one of them in his capacity, as engineer, refuses to approve of what the other does as contractor. They seem to want to give each other a black eye with the government so as to hold up the pay. Pirovani says that he’ll stop the whole works and go to Buenos Aires, where he has a lot of friends, and make complaints at headquarters there about the Frenchman....”
This was more than Robledo could listen to in silence.
“And while they are squabbling,” he raged, “they’re losing precious time. Winter is coming; that means that the river will rise, and if the dam isn’t finished, it will be swept away and the work of years destroyed. The whole thing will have to be done over again....”
The marqués, who was plunged in thought, suddenly exclaimed:
“But those men used to be friends! Something must have come between them....”
Robledo made a determined effort to keep his eyes from betraying pity and amazement as he looked at his friend. He merely nodded.
CHAPTER XI
IT was a little after sunrise when Moreno hastily left his house; Canterac had sent him an urgent message, asking him to call. The Frenchman was pacing nervously up and down. He wore high boots and riding breeches; his cartridge belt, revolver and coat were lying on a chair. Drops of water from his morning ablutions still trickled down his chest, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled to above his elbows. His hard, dictatorial expression became harsher still when he drew his eyebrows together, as though some thought or other were causing him both anger and pain.
Moreno noticed that on all the pieces of furniture and in all the corners there were numerous packages carefully wrapped in tissue paper, tied with delicate ribbon, and sealed.